Valiantly, Oh Valiantly, Little Black Sheep
by Merrybeans
Summary: Liam of Conte was always the odd one out. For a start, he was the only one that didn't look like Pa. And he was so obsessed with the ballroom...


**A/N: **This was written for the new LJ writing community "20yearsinalife". The challenge is to take a minor character and show the first twenty years of their life in set stages. I've used the "Intrigue" Theme Set here.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the characters, or the structure idea.

**Valiantly, Oh Valiantly, Little Black Sheep.**

0 _– sins of the father_

'**The Baby'**

The King was feeling so bad about how things had been playing out recently, that when his second son was born, he relinquished the naming to the women as a sort of peace-making. It was tradition for the King to name his sons, but he had already broken so many traditions that one more couldn't harm. Situations had not been pleasant lately with his wife- or with his friend, Alanna. Both women revelled in the control they'd now been given and Jonathan wondered how much they'd push his limits; would his son emerge with an unpronounceable five-barrelled label just for spite?

Jon was surprised- and touched- when Thayet decided on _Liam._

--

5 – _such a pretty child_

'**Pretty Liam'**

As far as Jonathan was concerned, surprise was never far behind his son Liam. As the young prince out-grew infancy, he lost his baby features and developed hair. By the time he was five years old, full of energy and smiles and desperately clutching his toy soldiers to his chest wherever he went, his looks garnered plenty of subdued comments.

_Oh, isn't he a pretty child?_

Yes, such a pretty child, they called him. Pretty- but never handsome. That's what they had called Jon when he was five, and what they had called little Roald just a few years back. Liam was only ever _pretty_.

Liam was only ever his mother's son.

--

10 – _love is a woman in a white dress and red roses_

'**Prince Liam'**

At ten years old, pretty little Prince Liam was headstrong. Unlike his older brother, he liked to get out there and _live_. He loved the fine clothes his position entitled him to and the beautiful toys he was given yearly, but he hated being stuck in the nurseries. His favourite game was to sneak out without his carers noticing, and to charm and entertain any young ladies he could find- be they his age, or fresh-faced courtiers.

Liam didn't mind the trouble he got into. In fact, he liked the attention it gave him. Especially from Father.

The young women really _were_ charmed by the sweet, pretty little prince. They laughed prettily at his valiant events, standing so smartly in his gold and green and buff satin, and encouraged him as much as they dared. Their cheeks flushed red at his naïve words and courageous attempts at compliments.

_We promise you a dance, _they would say in their sweet voices, _when you join us at a ball._

Liam would do all he could to get to one of those balls, but they remained elusive and he remained just a pretty boy in satin, an escapee from his nurse and the unusual child of the family. Each and every time he came near the grand, virginal ballroom, he was turned by the shoulder and escorted back to his chambers by the footman on guard at the door.

_He was too young_, the footman and the nurse said. _Too young and too small. When he was grown up, he could go and dance and drink with the best of them._

_He was the Prince! _he would reply- but it only got him a wicked little laugh now.

--

15 – _all the world's a stage and all the men and women players_

'**Squire Liam'**

Liam was fifteen when he was finally allowed inside the white and red ballroom. White, he told himself, for how grand and perfect it was; red for the passion that _had_ to reside there.

Unfortunately, his wonderful entrance was not quite as he had hoped for. No; he was simply taking his turn as a server in the traditional gold-and-red attire. It wasn't as fine, he told himself, as the green silk outfit he'd had planned for this occasion.

The ballroom, too, did not live up to his expectations. The only white was in the men's shirts, stained grey now with sweat, and the white paint on the wall, running here and there with condensation. There was no perfection to be found there- not even in the architecture. Liam (secretly a lover of fine carving) quickly spotted a number of mistakes the woodworkers, gilders and painters had valiantly tried to cover up. There was the odd miscalculation so that the pattern did not match up properly, a splatter of red where it should be blue, gold gild with an unsightly scratch mark – and so on.

There wasn't just a lack of perfection in the decoration, but most of the rest left a sick taste at the back of Liam's young throat. The drink wasn't as fine as it should be (too strong and coarse), the food did not disappear down the throats as quickly as it should (too cold by the time it got up from the kitchens, or too dull), the music wasn't as well-practised as it should have been (too much wine for the musicians in the gallery), and Liam seriously wondered if any of the courtiers had actually paid attention to the dancing lessons they'd given good coin for.

Struggling along with his chores, as valiantly as ever, Liam wondered what had happened to the fairy tale that used to dance here. What had corrupted it? Never had there been a more beautiful place to him, when he woke and when he slept, but the fairy tale was long lost. This was not a setting for a great story; no, this was the stage.

Red was in the ballroom in plentiful quantity, every which way he glanced. Red in the dresses, red on the walls, red in the glasses. It was in the looks women sent men, men sent women- and women sent women.

It was in the way that couple danced too closely, too vigorously; in the way that pair huddled too tightly in that corner, hands roaming where they shouldn't grace, painted and wine-stained lips brushing flushed ears. It was in the way that earl and that lady slipped out into the gardens, and in the way that lady's fiancé watched her go.

Yes, it was everywhere, and Liam found that once he got over his initial disgust, he was curious. He was intensely, furiously intrigued- more so then he'd been about anything else in his life. More than the hunting and sporting he loved, more than teasing and flirting the kitchen maids, more than his private indulgences of fine things like architecture and weaponry.

_Why the mask, why the mask?, _he kept asking. Even Father, sitting there in beautiful white and gold, on his beautiful red throne, wore one.

--

20 – _fool's gold_

'**Liam of Conté'**

Twenty years after he had been born, Liam had finally lost the label _pretty. _Now he was a knight, and no knight was merely _pretty_. He wore his brown-black hair long and shaggy and his beard full as soon it would grow. It gave him a rugged look. He couldn't do anything about the hazel eyes.

Dressed in green silk, a glass of fine red wine in one hand, he used his other to escort the beautiful white-dressed lady through the ballroom. Liam had wanted her for a while, but she had remained elusive, fluttering her eyelashes at him over the handheld fans that had come into fashion. He had persevered valiantly, as ever, ultimately getting what he wanted.

He was, after all, Liam of Conté.

He hoped, however, that she'd be worth the effort. His last conquest had hardly entertained him for half the night, let alone the weeks he'd looked forward to. She'd left in a flounce of pink satin and cream ribbons when she realised that, yes, he was going to take her that night and, no, he would not consider marriage. Silly woman.

But this sweet, fine creature on his arm now-! Well, she was something quite exquisite. Liam was sure he'd enjoy his time with her. He knew that the demure behaviour she displayed was all coyness; he'd caught her with those fine red lips around Lord Dennington last week and knew what she was capable of.

Not a complete fool, Liam was careful to keep some level of his womanising quiet. He knew Father wouldn't approve – not with the stakes Liam played, at any rate. When Liam was involved, there was always plenty of fine rich burgundy, sweetmeats for the ladies, and white silk sheets. Everything was as perfect as Liam could make it, each and every time. The ladies loved it. Liam loved it. He knew his father would be surprised by it all.

Father had always been surprised by him. Surprised when he took a disliking to his Aunt Alanna, with her criticising words and harsh tongue; surprised when he wanted to become a page, even though he had always shown a fondness for swords and horses; surprised when little Liam had done well in his training- and even more surprised when he done well in the _academic_ side of knighthood. In fact, Jonathan was even surprised when his little boy got into trouble.

As the King always told himself, the boy was hardly his.

But now, thought Liam, things were great. This was the life, he told himself. At twenty years and a fully-fledged knight, he did not need his father's approval or his permission.

The mornings, in his ideal day, were for hunting and jousting and duelling, for showing off his skills and enjoying his friends' company. He filled that hollow in the afternoon with lazy walks or visits to the tailor. The evenings, then, were spent fine-tuning his other skills: his dancing, his persuasion, his love-making both in the ballroom and out.

At some time, some little part of him- the part that used to appreciate fine arts- had shrivelled away. What had started as a fairy tale had become an intrigue, an obsession, and was now a completely different, less refined form of art.

He thought he had it. He thought- with his fine new moustache, the shield hanging on his wall, and the beautiful women constantly in and out of his bed- that he had found that fairy tale at last. Here, he was clever. Here, he was handsome and wanted and _the_ Prince. Here, he was almost beautiful.

His Father was generally too busy to notice – and too distressed to do anything but pretend he hadn't heard if it was mentioned to him. Roald- the perfect little copy of good old Pa- sent his younger brother furious scowls, angry letters, hushed words, and tried to keep his little wife from seeing too much. But Mother – Mother just turned her hazel eyes away.

---


End file.
